


cookies

by theAsh0



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers Family, Drabble, Fun, Grumpy Old Men, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24027727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0
Summary: The Other Punk’s 500 Follower Writing Challenge!!tooth-rotting fluff and general fun with Sam, Bucky and Clint. the last two being absolute dumpsterfires. And poor Sam has to try and be the grown-up in the room.
Kudos: 5
Collections: Short fun fics





	cookies

_ “Oh-my-god!” _ Sam Wison feels his heart leap from his chest. It’s physically painful. One moment he’s on his way out through one of the many hallways of Tony Stark’s memorial tower, the next —

the fucking Winter Soldier is inches away from his nose.

Upside down.

Sam backs up, turns to the side, and rubs at the place where his heart tried to beat out of his chest. It hardly helps, he so closes his eyes to swallow down the nausea. Only after precious moments does he dares squint at the figure dangling upside-down from an air vent. 

Bucky Barnes doesn’t appear to have any feelings of guilt or even sick satisfaction from scaring a man who’s supposed to be his new ‘Commanding Officer”, not to mention his _ friend. _ No, he’s completely blank as he turns to hang right-way-down, finally jumping to the floor soundlessly.

Sam finally finds his voice. “Why were you up there, man?” It’s some kind of spy thing, he bets. But. “Isn’t that kind of thing more Hawkeye’s speed?”

“Oh good.” Bucky tells him as he traightens, somehow not at all dusty or dirty after dragging his ass through air-vents for god knows how long. Black jeans still black, white tee still white. “My tactics of misdirection have at least befuddled the air-force. Maybe it’ll work on all bird-brains and I’ll be scot-free.”

Sam just blinks, tries to figure out what that _means_ — except for the obvious quip at him being airforce and there for of lesser intelligence. But before he can, Bucky wraps his real arm around the only-slightly smaller man (damn it, serum cheaters) and starts steering him towards the exit. “Hey, you remember how you promised to teach me how to bake those cookies? Well, now would be a _great_ time.”

Sam blinks once more, searching his memory of the aforementioned promise. All he can come up with is the movie-night three weeks ago. When he’d backed what was left of the Avengers some chocolate chip cookies. To cheer them up. After defeating Thanos, there really are not many Avengers left, and Sam felt he needed to do something nice.

It’s true that Bucky had, in fact, asked uncharacteristically enthusiastically. “These are the best cookies ever, Wilson. You gotto show me how you do that.”

And Sam had answered, unsure of where all that sudden emotion had come from and unwilling to make a false move in lieu of  _ unbalanced supersoldier, _ promised. “Yeah, sure. Maybe someday.”

They are in his car (Sam is not a fan of Buchy in his car), before he asks. “Who are we running from?”

“Evading. For the time being.” Bucky moves around in shotgun, trying to get his seat back all the way. His seatbelt isn’t done up either. Sam wouldn’t be surprised if this guy’s shit will get him arrested today. But, hey, all part of Captain America’s heritage he guesses.

“Fine. Who are we evading?” Bucky grunts. “Clint Barton.”

“Hawkeye?” Sam doesn’t understand that. “Isn’t he retired..? And why would you need to.”

“Apparently, he had to come out of retirement just to have a dick measuring contest with the WInter Soldier.” for the first time since Sam saw him today, there’s a hint of emotion in Bucky’s voice. Sam thinks that’s an improvement. Bucky showing a bit of feeling is good. It’s when he goes full-on emotional that Sam’s warning lights start flashing. He feels bad about it, but his work with POW’s taught him the signs, and Sam just got this new Audi last week. He doesn’t want to lose another car to a Winter Soldier melt-down.

Like he can hear Sam’s though, Bucky starts ticking the fingers of his metal left arm against the glass. “He was at the tower today for some business and he invited me to the shooting range.” 

Sam swallows, drives on. Stops at the next light, and starts up again when the lights turn green. He tries not to; he really does. But in the end Sam breaks; he  _ needs _ to know. “Who won?”

Bucky grins; a manic thing. “Well, with a tripod it’s not really clear, but I kicked his ass with free-hand.”

“'Course you did. You got an artificially steady arm to balance your fire-arm on.” Sam winces at his own words, but it kind of spilled out. He stops at the street in front of his house before he gets an answer. “That’s exactly what Hawkeye said.”

Bucky gets out, slams the door and starts striding towards his house, and Sam breathes a sigh of relief. Before remembering that his house is the next item on the danger list. It is also unnerving Bucky knows  _ exactly _ which house on this street is his. Like he’s been here before. And Sam definitely did not yet invite his unbalanced work-colleague to his home. 

“So.” Bucky tells him while Sam fiddles with the lock. “Clint said exactly the same. And then he went on a tangent that the only  _ real _ ranged weapon is a compound bow.”

Bucky follows Sam into the house, pushes past him in the hall and continues right on to the kitchen. By the time Sam has taken off his shoes and coat, he finds Bucky hip-deep in his refrigerator. “Don’t you have any root beer?”

“I kind of figured you for a wodka guy.” Sam offers in annoyance as he runs a hand down his own counter.

“Funny.” Bucky pauses, pulls his head out of the fridge to look at Sam. “You got any of that?”

At Sam’s shake of the head, Barnes grunts, takes Sam's milk and sits down at the opposite side of the counter. Then he starts chugging the stuff. Right. From. the. Carton.

It makes Sam sick to look at it. And not just because he’s got lactose intolerance. Exasperated, he gets up. “So are we making those cookies or what?”

“Oh.” Bucky has apparently already forgotten. His primary goal met, all pretence to get his way are abandoned. It’s typical, really. Bucky works the same way on missions: one task, no distractions. It’s.. sad. Sam is pretty sure Bucky Barnes needs a break, at the very least. And, ideally, an honorable discharge and a lot of therapy. But somehow the powers that be have decided that’s not what is going to happen. And Sam is stuck with a damaged side-kick. Well; Sam deflates. It’s hardly Bucky’s fault. “Come on, let’s get the ingredients out.”

Sam has Bucky kneading the dough before he asks: “So, what happened? With Clint?”

“Well, he started showing off and shit. With his bow.” Bucky blinks, sounding annoyed again. “What’s his problem anyway?”

Sam doesn’t have a clue. “Well.. He _ is _ from the circus?”

“Figures. One freak-show to the next. Anyway, after him showing off, I figured how  _ hard can it be? _ ”

“Oh.” The cookies go in the pre-heated oven, and "Bucky spends a ridiculous amount of time staring at them through the glass. When he finally speaks, it’s more to the oven than to Sam. “Did you know how  _ fragile  _ compound bows are?”

“They are not…” Sam eyes the gleaming, metal arm. “Alright, I suppose they  _ are  _ pretty fragile to  _ you _ .”

Another grunt; eloquence when speaking of your troubles must have been an academic subject in the ninteenfourtees, Sam thinks. “So.. was he..  _ very _ mad?”

“He said it was  _ fine _ and he wasn’t mad at all.”

“Really?” Sam finds that hard to believe. And he can see why that would have been more scary than a raging Hawkeye. Spies and revenge, after all.

“Then he said ‘excuse me, I need to get a drink.’” 

Sam blinks “And  _ that _ .. scared you?” drinking away your problems seems such a faux-pas thing to Sam, he’d expected Bucky Barnes to be more comfortable with that solution. Or was that more of a ninteen-sixties thing?

“No. Him saying he wasn’t mad _ scared  _ me. Him going out to get drunk made me realise I really don't feel like needing to look over my shoulder all week for some drunk hit-man.”

“I am not drunk.”

“Oh-my-fucking-god!” For the second time that day, Sam’s heart tries to leap out of his chest. It’s as bad as the first time. Maybe worse; compound damage and all that. Sam’s house doesn’t even  _ have _ air vents. 

Still, Clint Barton drops  _ right from his ceiling _ . Or wherever he’d been hiding. His clothes are a lot more dirty and rumpled than Bucky's had been, but that’s a given with Clint “And anyway, what would I shoot you with? You  _ broke _ my bow.”

“Oh my fucking god is right.” Bucky is back to blank-masked and straight-backed. “I hadn’t even considered he could _ bitch _ at me about it. Besides, you said it was  _ fine _ .”

“I lied.” there’s a theatrical tremble to Hawkeye’s voice, and he smells like he definitively found that drink. “I was being  _ manly _ about it. But damn man, you killed my  _ best friend!” _

“It’s a fucking bow.”

This is escalating too quickly. Some kind of masculinity contest indeed. “Look,” Sam interjects. “Bucky baked you some I’m-sorry-cookies to make up for it.”

“I am too upset for cookies. My-” Hawkeye blinks his glassy eyes, ”what kind of cookies?”

“Chocolate chip.” Bucky offers, stone-faced. It occurs to Sam that perhaps he really  _ did _ want to make the cookies as a peace-offering. One can never tell with those centenarians. Steve Rogers was bad enough but- well. He’s not sure Barton is much better. Perhaps Sam is just dealing with two stunted individuals trying to make up and failing.

For no obvious reason, Barton has opened the oven, and is in the process of claiming not-quite well-done cookies by picking them up with his bare fingers. Burning himself in the process. Repeatedly. “These are great, Buck.” Barton finally proclaims. “I have officially forgiven you.”

“Fuck you too, Barton.” Bucky scowls.

“But if I need to kill anyone, you will have to let me borrow your arm.”

“What?”

“Three-armed monster. It’ll be  _ epic _ .  _ Trust me _ .”

Sam sighs, allowing a grin. Stunted indeed. 


End file.
